


Softened edges and blurred lines

by FangedAngel



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Overstimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/pseuds/FangedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The iTunes festival brings everything to a head, and Louis needs to bridge the distance between Harry and him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Softened edges and blurred lines

**Author's Note:**

> This one only took two months to write! Progress? It was only supposed to be comfort!fic, but somehow also ended up having smut. So it's...smut with build up? Featuring jealous!Louis and bottom!Louis (they definitely switch in general in my headcanon) and overall feels.

Louis hears him and it's a problem, because Harry's so far away, and the music is so loud, and Louis should not physically be able to hear Harry laughing, but he does. It's like Harry and him are standing in a vacuum, and there's nothing else, just Louis, and Harry, too far to reach, laughing at something Nick's said. Louis can only see Harry, because the rest of the room is blinding lights and shapeless shadows, and he knows that Nick and Annie are right next to Harry, right there, but he doesn't want to see them. He rewinds the sound of Harry's laughter in his head, looking for the false note in his cheer, and when he finds it, he knows he can finally move.

His fingers feel numb around the bottle he's gripping, and it's Niall who ends up prying it away with concern softening the edges of his smile, Niall who disentangles himself from the shadows.

'You going to finally go to him?' Niall asks, and Louis looks at the group around them, at the lads, at Eleanor in the corner, fading in the background, and he looks back at Harry, at the hand Nick has on Harry's elbow.

'Think so, yeah,' he replies, and he hates that his voice wavers for what seems like the thousandth time today, but Niall just playfully punches him in the arm and flails his arms like he does when he's on his way to being drunk.

'Just go, mate, I'll take care of the rest, yeah? Go home.'

Louis nods and shoves his hands in his pockets to better ignore that they've gone from numb to shaky. It's stupid, he thinks to himself as he walks over to Harry, legs more unsteady with each step, heartbeat deafening in his ears, making the music seem almost too quiet in comparison.

Nick sees him approaching and lets go of Harry's elbow instantly, and Louis would feel a surge of triumph at that if he weren't so unsure about everything, if he weren't so tired because of everything. He knows that Harry knows he's there, almost within touching distance, but he doesn't turn to face Louis until he absolutely has to, and he looks so guarded that Louis wants to turn back and pretend he never wanted to say anything. Annie's telling Nick something that must be funny because Nick is laughing, loudly, but Louis is looking at Harry, and Harry is looking at him, and neither of them are letting the other see anything, and it kills Louis, because this is not them, this is so far from them, but it's been shit lately, and they've barely talked this week, and they still haven't mentioned Sunday yet and Harry’s still hurt because of it, and they're both tired, and Louis just wants to go home.

'Can we go?' he asks, and he curses himself for sounding so stupid and small and scared, but it triggers a reaction in Harry, who reaches out to Louis, hand in mid-air between their bodies, breaching the distance, but then Harry's face shutters again when he looks around and remembers all the people there, the all-seeing lights and the witnessing shadows.

Harry nods once, shoving his glass at Nick without meeting his eyes and saying his goodbyes. Louis hugs Annie after Harry, but stubbornly refuses to get anywhere close to Nick, managing a half-hearted wave before making his way through the crowd. He only allows himself to look back once to check if Harry's following, but it's enough to meet Harry's eyes, and despite the heavy air in the room, he seems to be able to draw breath for what feels like the first time in hours.

*

They're driven home by some stranger Paul's tasked to play chauffeur, and there's distance between Louis and Harry again as they sit, silent, in the backseat, the gap bordering them from each other. Harry's frowning at the display of nighttime Camden out his window, mellow lights washing the side of his face Louis can see in different nuances. He looks so beautiful, but still so far away, and Louis feels suffocated again by the silence, so he breaks it the only way he knows how.

'Thought you were going partying with Nick,' and it would carry more sting if he weren't so tired, but Harry snaps anyway.

'Thought you were going to stay at Liam's side; I didn't want to bother you,' and Harry can't hurt anyone else to save his life, but he can rip Louis apart with just the look in his eyes, with just the tone of his voice.

Louis looks out his own window to avoid the blank stare Harry's giving him, biting his lip until it hurts. He wishes for the warmth of Harry's arms, of Harry's smile, but all he has for now is freezing cold, and he hasn't known how to deal with any of this since it began, so he can't think of anything to do. Harry seems to be waiting for something, but gives up when Louis doesn't look back at him, turning away again.

Louis lets Harry thank the driver when they're home, lets Harry unlock doors and lead the way through them. The house feels foreign in the dark, and Louis stands in the hallway until Harry switches the lights on, and the warm glow comforts him, makes him feel a bit more at home, even if he's still not as used to the new place as he was to the old one.

He hears Harry fiddling around in the kitchen, hears the familiar sounds of water splashing in the sink, the hiss of the kettle, the clink of two mugs held together. He follows the noise of their usual late-night arrival routine, and for a second it feels like nothing's changed, like nothing could ever take them away from this and make them strangers to each other, not even for a moment. He stands in the doorway and watches Harry moving around, getting tea from the cupboard and nearly hitting his head on the cupboard door in his haste to get to the kettle.

On any other night, Louis would laugh at him, and Harry would chuck things at him, and then they'd dissolve into each other, laughing together, and Louis would hold Harry tight and chase the taste of alcohol on his tongue. But it's not a normal night, and Louis still can't make himself adapt to this situation, so he stands there until Harry brings him his tea, and their fingers don't touch during the exchange and then Harry moves away again, busying himself with the toaster as Louis tries to warm his hands by wrapping them around the mug that Harry bought for him during X Factor and that's been Louis' favourite ever since. It's chipped from where it crashed to the floor one early morning last winter when Harry'd used only lips and fingers to wake Louis up, and Louis had reached out for something to grab onto only to tip everything that was on the nightstand over. It's Louis' favourite thing about the mug, feeling the roughness of the chipped bit on his lips before the warmth of the tea takes over, and thinking about Harry, always thinking about Harry.

They eat their toast in silence, separated by the table, Harry scrolling on his phone at the same time, Louis watching Harry, seeing the anger tucked in the corner of his eyes and the corner of his mouth and the crease of his forehead. It's been days since they've been home at the same time, and Louis knows he shouldn't have let this silence stretch between them, but he's felt even guiltier, even more frightened, since Sunday, and watching Harry with Nick all throughout the day that's just ended has only served to make him sick with it, with all these feelings that he can't control.

'Look at me,' and of all the words threatening to spill from his lips, these make him feel the most vulnerable.

Harry looks at him, and his eyes are hollow, empty in a way Louis could never have imagined them being two years ago, and Louis can't help the tears that burn their way down his cheeks. He hates crying with a passion, never allows himself to do it in public, barely ever in front of Harry, because he has to be strong and keep it together and keep playing the game and his emotions can't get in the way of that, but it's been a bad week, a nightmarish day, and he can't deal with that look in Harry's eyes, he can't.

He hides behind his palms, fanning them over his face in a futile attempt to shield himself, and he tries to stifle his sobs but he chokes on them instead, and before he can register the rustle of movement, Harry's next to him, pulling him off the chair and into his arms and Louis would fight it on any other night, because he always bitches about being manhandled, but this is not any other night. Harry's warm, as Louis expected, and he lets himself sink into the embrace, lets his tears taint the white of Harry's shirt, lets his fingers wrap around Harry's arms, thumbs digging into skin, making prints blush under them. Harry's warm, and whenever they're holding each other Louis thinks of their sheets, of their bed, of all the beds they've claimed as their own through so many anonymous cities. He thinks of home, and tea on Harry's lips, and the lyrics that he sometimes finds himself whispering in the crook of Harry's neck, and Harry's scent, freshly laundered linen, and bed-warm skin, and conditioned curls. He's always safe in Harry's arms, no matter what. It's where the shadows can't reach him, where they can't turn him into one of their own. It's light, and it's Harry, and it's something Louis won't give up to bad weeks, or nightmarish days.

He loses himself for a second, breathing Harry in, and he doesn't register that Harry's speaking, at first, doesn't realise until the litany of _I'm sorry sorry so sorry_ has roughened Harry's voice. Harry's not hiding anything anymore, Louis' fear painted all over him now, eyes wide and hurt and terrified, tears in the corners of his eyes, drowning the anger.

'He can’t have you, Harry, he can’t, I won’t let him, I’ll never let him, he has no claim to you' Louis says, a torrent of words tinged with the desperation he's tried to reign in, the madness he's tried to coax into submission.

Harry shakes his head, and Louis cups his face in his hands and kisses him, cuts off the protests because Louis knows, he knows that Harry would never do anything other than flirt, he knows that they've both gone far beyond the point where being with anyone else was still a possibility, but it doesn't help that they match each other in this as in most things, their jealousy almost destructive in nature, deafening, blinding.

'I love you,' Harry says, broken, sounding as emotionally exhausted as Louis feels, and Louis realises he's on tiptoe when he kisses Harry again, and huffs a laugh against Harry's bottom lip before sucking it between his and then biting down, making Harry fist handfuls of the back of the Batman shirt Louis’ ended up wearing, crumpling the material, making Louis shiver.

'Want you tonight,' Louis says, simply, trying not to stutter, knowing that Harry will know what he means, knowing that there's so much weight behind the words, so much need.

He moves away from Harry, who's looking at him, all parted lips and huge eyes and wild curls, and Louis can't breathe again, but it's a sweet lack of oxygen this time around, his heart thudding in his chest, his throat dry and palms damp. He looks at the table, at the reminder of tea and toast, trying to remember how to function, until Harry's hand cups his cheek, and therefore covering the entire right side of his face, and Louis wants to crack a comment about his huge fucking hands again, but he can't breathe, let alone speak, Harry's fingers caressing his skin with all the softness of a whisper.

‘But aren’t you tired?’ Harry asks, a flutter of worry in the words, and Louis scowls at him, but the way he tugs at Harry’s curls is playful, fond exasperation.

On any other night, they’d be fighting - or rather, Louis would be yelling at Harry and Harry would wait it out until Louis' temper cooled, and then he'd make them a meal and Louis would press kisses to his back in the meantime, whispered apologies - but Louis' anger is absent, as it usually is in the face of Harry's pain, the pain that he can feel thrumming under his fingers, where Harry's tried to hide it, under his skin.

'Need you, Harry,' and it's all Harry seems to need in turn, his breath hitching, thumb pressing into Louis' cheek, drawing a line to the corner of Louis' mouth, tracing his lips.

Louis moves away, making sure to link his fingers with Harry's before leading him along to their bedroom, letting go only to pull the Batman shirt over his head, followed by the rest of his clothes, throwing his shoes away. Harry would usually make a comment about Louis discarding his clothes on the floor again, but tonight he seems too eager to let his hands slide over Louis' exposed skin to care, and Louis lets him, his arms around Harry's neck, reaching up to kiss him again, moaning into Harry's mouth when Harry's fingers dig into tense muscle, making it relax under his touch. It feels like the agony of the last few days dissolves in the face of need, Louis' thirst matching Harry's hunger, Louis' fingers tangled in Harry's hair, holding on while Harry sucks marks along the curve of neck and shoulder, neither of them bothering to care about hiding anything, not now.

Louis' hands slip under Harry's blazer, tugging at it until Harry cooperates and allows Louis to pull it off him. There's no hint of patience left in Louis as he makes quick work of the buttons of Harry's shirt, and none of them are lost but he yanks the shirt off hard enough for the fabric to rip and Harry laughs as Louis balls the shirt in his hands and throws it into the corner of the room like it's offended him. Louis nips at Harry's chin, the sharp sting of his teeth soothed by his lips, before cocking his head towards the bed.

'On your back then, I have to work on getting those jeans off you,' he says, and Harry's on the bed before Louis' even done talking, and Louis feels heat bloom in his cheeks, his heart stammering in his chest again.

Louis doesn’t think he’ll ever understand it, this overwhelming trust Harry has in him, always obeying without hesitation. The depth of that trust's become even more apparent in the last few months, when everything else between them's become so frayed, cracking around the edges, with Louis losing himself more and more, and with the possibility of Louis losing Harry casting a shadow that's enveloped everything. There've been too many fights between them to count, too many nights of them sleepless in separate houses, in separate beds, sometimes even in separate countries, but when it comes to this, to the two of them together, inhabiting the same space and kept apart only by the boundaries of their bodies, Harry's never stopped letting Louis mould everything between them into whatever shape he wished, Harry's never stopped obeying so easily, so beautifully, so happily.

The only thing Louis can actually rationalise about it is that he'll never deserve this, he'll never deserve having Harry giving him everything he has, everything he is. It's terrifying sometimes, too much power in Louis' hands, too much to control, and other times it feels right, like it's balance restored, like Harry's giving him back all the power he took away from Louis the second Louis met him, all the control Louis was stripped of when Harry first smiled at him, when Harry's hand found its way to Louis' in greeting, when Harry laughed at the formality of it all and pulled Louis in his arms, like they'd known each other forever.

Louis watches Harry now, spread out on their bed, his thumbs drawing impatient patterns in the sheets beneath him. It's one of the sets Louis picked when they went out shopping for new bedding for their new home, when they both picked an array of sets and laughed over them when they were delivered, unpacking all of them and spreading them around the house, a multitude of colours blending into each other, and in the middle of them all, Louis and Harry, tangled together. The sheets are green, because it's Harry's favourite colour and of course Louis had to pick three different sets in three different shades of it, because he knew Harry would look like this on them, that his eyes would be so intensely green that Louis would just fall into the nuance of them, over and over again.

He watches Harry until the ugly darkness of his insecurities starts trickling into his thoughts, watches until Harry starts to fidget, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and watching Louis back, all his emotions painted vividly on his face, his longing and his need and his love and everything Louis will never be able to deal with. He watches Harry until he feels too exposed, crossing his arms to hide behind them, and Harry frowns, says a very audible and firm _no_ and reaches out, arm extended, hand open. Louis can't help the startled laughter that escapes him at the indignation on Harry's face, and it comes out a little breathless, a little vulnerable, but Harry doesn't comment on it, Harry doesn't move, even though Louis can see how much Harry wants to pull Louis into his arms and wrap himself all around him.

Their hands find themselves and fit together as perfectly as usual, fingers twining, Louis' palm overwhelmed by Harry's, and Louis wonders if he'll ever be able to breathe again, if his heartbeat will ever slow down, if Harry's presence will ever not take over all of him.

He kneels between Harry’s legs on the bed, pins Harry’s hands to the mattress smoothly, trying not to get distracted by Harry’s pulse beating, staccato, against the pad of his thumb where it’s pressed into his wrist. He kisses Harry instead, tongues gliding together, bodies pressed together, so close that Harry’s necklaces dig into Louis’ skin, and Louis bites at Harry’s jaw in retaliation. Harry doesn’t move his arms when Louis lets go of his hands, his fingers preoccupied with the zip and button of Harry’s jeans. He pushes Harry up the bed so he can trace his lips next to the line the waistband of the jeans creates, so he can suck on the skin over Harry’s hipbone, making blood rush to the surface, the shape of Louis’ lips blooming there.

The jeans cling to Harry’s legs like second skin, and Louis laughs again when he starts pulling them off, Harry lifting his hips off the bed to help.

‘Why did I tell you to wear these again?’ he asks, teasing now, the familiar rush of lust in his veins, the need for Harry coursing through him, but tempered by Harry’s responsiveness, the way Harry’s body is rigid with tension, by Louis knowing that Harry wants to arch into him but won’t allow himself to because Louis would disapprove.

It’s enough to centre him, to distract him from anything that isn’t Harry’s body responding to his touch, anything that isn’t Harry’s need for him.

He bends Harry’s knee to aid with the task at hand, but waits for Harry’s answer, his fingers digging into the back of Harry’s knee and making Harry’s breath hitch and falter.

‘You said I looked good in them,’ Harry eventually replies, his fingers pale as they twist into the green of the sheets.

‘No, I said you looked extremely fuckable in them. And you did, tonight. I kept thinking of ripping them off you. He probably did too,’

He gets another frown in reply to that, and more tension under his hands, Harry’s muscles coiled tight, and Louis lets himself remember the hunger in Nick’s gaze as his eyes had trailed over Harry during the whole festival. He lets himself remember just for the satisfaction of knowing that Nick will never see this, that this side of Harry will forever be kept away from him. He’ll never get to see Harry’s eyes like this, the black of his pupils drowning the green, his cheeks flushed with the same tone of rose as his lips, his chest heaving with every breath that gets stuck in his throat.

‘You’re mine,’ Louis says, and it’s a statement, but Harry nods anyway, already desperate, already frantic, and it’s how he always is after days of separation and Louis pulls the jeans off one leg almost too roughly in reply, using both hands.

The jeans are soon discarded on the floor, and Louis takes the sight of Harry in, letting himself enjoy it, despite the need that demands attention, that demands satisfaction. Harry’s pants hide nothing, and Louis lets his fingertips dance along the length they cover, his urgency paling in front of Harry’s. Louis knows that the effort of not moving his hips is probably causing Harry pain by now, and it makes him feel almost drunk, lightheaded and giddy with it, with the control he silently exerts over Harry, who knows all the limits, all the boundaries that he doesn’t blur until Louis lets him.

It won’t be long now, Louis’ need becoming deafening, the constant rush of blood in his ears, every nerve ending screaming for Harry, but he lets himself tease some more, his hands mapping every curve and angle of Harry’s body, fingers digging into skin, coaxing blood to the surface, tracing the lines of ribs and the sharpness of collarbones. Harry’s pleading by the time he reaches Harry’s lips, and then Harry’s sucking on his fingers, greedy, and Louis knows it’s time.

He lies next to Harry on the bed and pulls Harry on top of him, Harry straddling his waist, resting his weight on his knees, kissing Louis messily, with Louis’ spit-slick fingers tangling in his hair.

‘Come on. Come on, Harry, want to feel you,’ Louis says, breathing Harry’s breath, all pretence of patience gone.

Harry moves away, and goosepimples rise across Louis’ skin at the loss of him, but then Harry returns with a bottle of lube that he uncaps with his thumb, kneeling between Louis’ legs. He pours lube in his palm and rubs it into his fingers, warming it up, and then he mimicks what Louis’d done to him earlier, bending his knee back, his hand warm on Louis’ skin, spreading him open.

Harry wastes a few seconds on teasing, fingertips circling Louis’ opening like he’s trying to memorise it, eyes dark and lips damp with Louis’ saliva and Louis snarls at him, tells him to use two fingers, and Harry does, presses them inside slowly, and Louis arches into the burn of it, into the feeling of Harry’s fingers, sticky and slippery, opening him up, stretching him. It’s been a while since he’s taken Harry, but his body seems to remember, or his need takes over, because he’s demanding a third finger, probably too soon, and he can see the flicker of uncertainty in Harry’s eyes, because Harry never wants to hurt him, but Louis doesn’t have the time for this, so he tightens around Harry’s fingers, and Harry moans at the feel of it, and Louis knows that Harry’s thinking of his cock replacing his fingers, of Louis’ body tight around him. He rolls his hips to take Harry’s three fingers deeper only for a few moments, feeling himself leaking against his stomach, and then wrapping his hand around Harry’s and tightening his hold around Harry’s wrist until Harry pulls them out, and when Louis says ‘now, do it now,’ Harry does, but much slower than Louis would like, the fingers of his other hand drawing bruises where they’re digging into the back of his knee, his inner thigh. Louis wants to take all of him at once, but his voice cracks when he says it, and Harry shakes his head, a barely-there gesture, his eyes still dark, but somehow soft. He leans over Louis to kiss him, the hand that’s still sticky with lube pressed to Louis’ chest and then moving lower, rubbing soothing caresses into skin, fondly tracing the contours of Louis’ flank until finally curling over his hip. Louis presses his forearm to his eyes, trying to control his breathing, but he’s gasping at the feeling of Harry inside him, Harry filling him, and it’s been so long, but this is what he needed and he nearly sobs as sensation crashes over him, and then Harry’s teeth nip at his wrist, and Harry says _I want to see you_ and Louis takes his arm away from his face, looking up at Harry and panting.

Harry’s got a focused frown on his face, trying to take it slow, but Louis’ had enough of it and pushes back until he’s got all of Harry, and Harry’s the one to gasp this time around.

‘Tell me...tell me how it feels,’ Harry says, and Louis knows he doesn’t have to give him an answer, but  Harry looks so overwhelmed, like he’s trying to deal with everything he’s feeling, his hips rolling with the smooth movement Louis enjoys, and Louis wants him to know, Louis wants him to understand how much Louis needed this.

‘So good, Haz, I can feel you, and it burns, and it’s so good, and I needed this so much, I needed you, needed to feel you stretching me open, all of you, god, Haz, move, move, need you,’ and it’s a babble by the end but it’s Harry who sobs this time around. He does move, but not the rough rhythm that Louis wanted, settling for longer strokes, as gentle as he can be, and Louis hates him for it, loves him for it, and he can’t help but moan brokenly as  the hand that Harry had on his hip moves up to curl in his hair, and Hair kisses him, long and sweet and so loving Louis feels like he’ll break, like he’ll shatter, and he digs the heel of his free leg into the mattress and arches into Harry, rubbing his cock against Harry’s stomach. He feels too much, too much, and Harry’s all around him and he can’t breathe, so he kisses Harry, again, and again, and he makes all these sounds that he’ll be ashamed of in the morning, when his throat will be sore, and he tightens around Harry until Harry can only whisper against Louis’ lips, voice gone, a litany of Louis’ name. Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s back, trailing his hands up and down the length of it until he links them behind Harry’s neck, pulling Harry even further down until they’re touching everywhere, Harry’s necklaces slapping into Louis’ chest with every roll of Harry’s hips. He arches his neck so that Harry can press kisses to the skin there, and he moans and moans again, and says something that was meant to be a command, or a plea, and Harry’s still everywhere, and Louis doesn’t know where his body ends and where Harry’s begins because there’s no space between them, not even for a breath, because he doesn’t need to breathe if he’s got Harry.

‘I’ll take care of you, Lou,’ Harry says, whispers, really, and Louis digs his fingers into Harry’s shoulders and holds on as Harry moves faster, finally, as Harry lifts up a bit to wrap his hand around Louis, and Louis forgets about everything else, about the ache of his muscles where Harry’s still bending his leg at the knee, about the ugly thoughts that are always haunting him, about the pain he almost choked on as he watched Nick watching Harry, about the horrible awkwardness of barely even interacting with Harry on stage, about the hollow look in Harry’s eyes, he forgets about everything, because this is all there is, this place where they’re not Harry and Louis, not separate in any way, this place where they’re each other’s.

After, when their breathing’s smoothed into a somewhat normal pattern, Louis stays wrapped around Harry, arms and legs around him. Harry's a bit out of it, mouthing at Louis' collarbone, teeth nipping at skin every few seconds, but keeping his weight on his knees, between Louis' thighs. Louis twirls Harry's curls around his fingers like rings with one hand, his other mapping the expanse of Harry's back. Harry murmurs words against his chest, presses his ear there to hear Louis' heartbeat, like he sometimes does even when he's sleeping, tells Louis that he loves him, over and over, until Louis can focus only on that, until Louis smiles at the ceiling, and pulls Harry up to kiss him, kiss the breath out of him, and it's all that matters, all that will ever matter, this boy in his arms and the way they just fit together, bodies aligned, matching. He kisses Harry and Harry kisses him back, Harry's hand tracing circles in the wetness covering Louis' tummy until Louis laughs against his mouth, shaking his head at Harry and pulling at the curls, just slightly.

 

He's still laughing when he looks up at Harry's sleep-tinged eyes, still laughing when he calls Harry a filthy boyfriend, and it makes Harry grin at him so brightly that Louis feels like he's melting into the mattress. Harry loves it when Louis reminds him of it, when he says the word out loud, because they barely ever allow themselves to use it now, not since Harry almost said it on the radio in the US. It's their normality, but not one that's allowed to stumble out in interviews, and they've been warned off it. Louis barely even calls Harry his boyfriend when they're in front of the lads, and he knows what it does to Harry, knows what it does to himself as well, but there's not much he can change about that, so he says it here, and it falls off his lips like a prayer, soft at the edges, even though it was meant to sound playfully accusatory. Harry's still grinning like a fool when Louis tells him they're starting to stick together, and Louis kisses it off him because it makes his heart ache, because Harry should look like this all the time, happy and sparkly-eyed and content and loved-up and free, absolutely free in the way Louis can't give him now, will probably not be able to give him for years.

 

Louis shakes his head to clear it of the thoughts, trying to cling to the beautiful languor of the moment, to Harry's dimpled cheek and smiley eyes. He sits up when Harry moves away, and then winces when he stands, the burn making itself felt where Harry'd stretched him open, and Harry sees it and looks a bit sheepish, but Louis can see the way his eyes darken a bit, and Louis knows that feeling because he has it whenever he's done fucking Harry through the mattress, whenever he sees the mess he's made of him. Louis rolls his eyes at Harry, though, not giving him any leeway, not telling him that he knows exactly how it feels. He leads the way into the shower, luxuriating in the feel of warm water running down his skin, and then Harry wraps his arms around him, his chest flush against Louis' back, and Louis is strongly reminded of exactly how much taller Harry is in moments like these, when he's pressed to Harry head to toe and still tucked under Harry's chin. Louis lets himself sag against Harry, knowing Harry can take the weight, because Harry wants to take care of him now, wants to tend to him, knows that it's what Louis needs, and Louis would get defensive over it on any other night, maybe, or maybe he's reached that stage where he doesn't feel as scared by the intensity of their bond anymore, not as scared to give into it.

 

Louis turns in Harry's arms to face him after Harry shampoos his hair, rubbing at his scalp and then letting his fingers trail down the back of Louis' neck, pressing down firmly to uncoil the tension of the last few days hidden in Louis' shoulders. Louis trails kisses down the column of Harry's neck, settling in the dip of Harry's collarbones and sucking on the skin there, trying to make it bruise, lost in it until he can feel Harry's fingers slipping between his buttocks, pressing in again, and he gasps and bites at Harry's mouth because god, it's too much, and Harry gives him two fingers, and it burns, and Harry must feel where he'd come inside Louis earlier, and Louis sobs when Harry kisses him shortly before asking Louis is it's ok, if he can do this, and Louis manages to nod, somehow, despite not being able to form any sort of coherent thought.

 

'Stop thinking, Lou. For me,' Harry says, and Louis breathes his breath and pulls his head down, demanding more kisses than he can barely respond to, but needing them all the same.

 

It burns and it seems to take over all of him until all he can feel are Harry's fingers, lazily moving inside him until they settle on rubbing at his prostate until Louis is whimpering against Harry's mouth, whimpering and sobbing and generally a wreck and Harry holds him up because Louis' knees are weak, his arm strong around Louis' waist, and Louis can't breathe, can't beg for more even though he wants to, but Harry must know because he gives him more, fingers rubbing at him until Louis is able to stifle his sobs only because he's biting in the muscle of Harry's shoulder. He realises that he's rutting against Harry's thigh and he can't even care about it, because he can't breathe, can't breathe, and he's burning up, and he's Harry's, so utterly Harry's, and then Harry kisses him again, and bites at Louis' lip and says _love you love you love you_ until Louis comes all over him with a loud cry.

 

Louis still hasn't recovered by the time they're both clean, allowing Harry to dry him off. His body seems to have switched off, somehow, too sated to care about anything like moving, and he lets Harry carry him back to the bed, his legs wrapping around Harry half-arsedly, his lips busy with sucking bruises along Harry's shoulder, trailing up the curve of Harry's neck, despite knowing that they're not allowed. Louis doesn't care much about that now, because he is Harry's and Harry is his and he's going to mark the proof of that on Harry's skin, and it will still be there for Nick to remark on when Harry sees him on Saturday, and it makes it all better, somehow.

 

Harry sets Louis gently on the bed, drawing the duvet over him and kissing him, softly, before slipping in right next to him. He cuddles Louis close, in a reversal of their usual sleeping position, so Louis is the one listening to Harry's heartbeat now, his head on Harry's chest, nuzzling into it, letting the sound lull him to sleep. There's no space between them, and Harry's all around him, and the dread he'll have to face in the morning can't creep in, not now, not for hours yet.


End file.
